Chapter 12 - The Midnight Raid on Greenwich
-12-
The storm that had battered New York earlier in the week returned with a vengeance by midnight, turning the winding private roads of Greenwich, Connecticut, into slick, black rivers of rain and mud.
A matte-black Ford Explorer with tinted windows and stolen diplomatic plates crept silently along the perimeter fence of the Moretti estate, cutting its headlights a hundred yards before reaching Gate 3.
Inside the SUV, Lucian Moretti sat in the passenger seat, his knuckles white as he gripped the dashboard. On his lap sat a heavy, suppressed automatic pistol—the final weapon of a desperate man who had nothing left to lose.
Behind the wheel sat a hired gun Sal had provided—a cold, silent professional named Miller who didn't ask questions as long as the cash cleared.
“Security grid is down,” Miller murmured, tapping a laptop screen mounted to the center console. “I jammed their local relay towers ten minutes ago. The cameras are looping old footage, and the motion sensors on the northern perimeter are blind.”
Lucian looked out the rain-streaked window toward the looming silhouette of the main Greenwich manor. Through the blinding sheets of rain, he could see the warm, golden glow of the conservatory windows on the ground floor.
“We go in through the glass terrace,” Lucian said, his voice terrifyingly calm, devoid of all human emotion. “Fast, quiet, and clean. I take my son, and we hit the Canadian border before sunrise.”
“And if the guards or the sister get in the way?” Miller asked, sliding a silencer onto his own firearm with a sharp clack.
“Nobody dies unless they force my hand,” Lucian commanded, pushing the car door open. “Move.”
They slipped through the perimeter fence like ghosts, melting into the dense shadows of the manicured cedar trees surrounding the estate. The rain drowned out the sound of their footsteps as they crept across the stone terrace leading directly to the conservatory.
Lucian raised his elbow, wrapped his jacket sleeve around his fist, and smashed it against the reinforced glass pane of the sliding terrace door.
CRASH.
The glass shattered inward in a dull, muffled thud. Lucian reached through the jagged opening, flipped the interior latch, and slid the door open.
They stepped into the warm, plant-filled sanctuary of the conservatory. The scent of damp earth and blooming lemon trees hung heavy in the air.
“Check the bassinet,” Lucian whispered, gesturing toward the center of the room where the custom cradle stood beneath the dim light of a standing lamp.
Miller crept forward, his gun raised, sweeping the corners of the room. He reached the bassinet, looked down inside, and froze.
“Boss,” Miller muttered, his voice dropping an octave. “Empty.”
Lucian lunged forward, shoving Miller aside. He dropped to his knees beside the bassinet.
The blankets were neatly folded. The soft blue pillow was warm to the touch. But Nico was gone.
“Where is he?!” Lucian snarled, grabbing Miller by his tactical vest and jerking him upward. “Where is my son?!”
Before Miller could answer, the overhead lights of the conservatory suddenly flared to life with blinding intensity, snapping on simultaneously across the entire room.
Lucian shielded his eyes with his arm, stumbling backward.
“Looking for someone, Lucian?” a calm, melodic voice echoed from the shadowed archway leading into the main house.
Lucian whipped his head around.
Standing beneath the archway was Elena, holding a steaming mug of coffee with absolute, terrifying serenity. Behind her stood four heavily armed federal marshals and two of Sterling & Vance’s top security operatives, their rifles trained squarely on Lucian and his hired gun.
And right beside Elena stood me.
I wore a dark silk robe, my hair falling loose over my shoulders, holding Nico securely against my chest in a soft gray sling. My son was sleeping soundly, completely unaware that his father had just broken into a federal safehouse with a gun.
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Lucian stared at me, his face turning the color of ash. His pistol slipped from his trembling fingers, hitting the marble floor with a dull, heavy clatter.
“Serena...” he breathed, his voice breaking into a ragged, pathetic whisper. “How... how did you know?”
